Prodigy (5 page)

I can tell Razor’s words are stirring something in Day, coaxing out a gleam in his
eyes that takes me aback with its intensity. “Something worth dying for,” Day repeats.

I should be excited too. But somehow,
still,
the thought of the Republic crashing down sends a pulse of nausea through me. I don’t
know if it’s brainwashing, years of Republic doctrine drilled into my brain. The feeling
lingers, though, along with a flood of shame and self-hate.

Everything I am familiar with is gone.

THE MEDIC SHOWS UP IN A QUIET FLURRY SOMETIME after midnight. She preps me. Razor
drags a table from the living room to one of the smaller bedrooms, where boxes of
random supplies—food, nails, paper clips, canteens of water, you name it, they got
it—are stacked in the corners. She and Kaede lay a sheet of thick plastic under the
table. They strap me down to the table with a series of belts. The Medic carefully
prepares her metal instruments. My leg lies exposed and bleeding. June stays by my
side while they do all this, watching the Medic as if her supervision alone will ensure
that the woman makes no mistakes. I wait impatiently. Every moment that passes brings
us closer to finding Eden. Razor’s words stir me each time I think about them. Dunno—maybe
I should’ve joined the Patriots years ago.

Tess bustles efficiently about the room as the Medic’s assistant, putting gloves on
her hands after scrubbing up, handing her supplies, watching the process intently
when there’s nothing for her to do. She manages to avoid June. I can tell by Tess’s
expression that she’s nervous as hell, but she doesn’t utter a word about it. The
two of us had chatted with each other pretty easily during dinner, when she’d sat
on the couch beside me—but something has changed between us. I can’t quite put my
finger on it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that Tess was
into
me. But it’s such a weird thought, I quickly push it away.
Tess,
who’s practically my sister, the little orphan girl from Nima sector?

Except she’s
not
just a little orphan girl anymore. Now I can see distinct signs of adulthood on her
face: less baby fat, high cheekbones, eyes that don’t seem quite as enormous as I
remember. I wonder why I never noticed these changes before. It only took a few weeks
of separation to become obvious. I must be dense as a goddy brick, yeah?

“Breathe,” June says beside me. She sucks in a lungful of air as if to demonstrate
how it’s done.

I stop puzzling over Tess and realize that I’ve been holding my breath. “Do you know
how long it’ll take?” I ask June. She pats my hand soothingly at the tension in my
tone, and I feel a pinch of guilt. If it wasn’t for me, she’d still be on her way
to the Colonies right now.

“A few hours.” June pauses as Razor takes the Medic aside. Money exchanges hands—they
shake on it. Tess helps the Medic put on a mask, then gives me a thumbs-up. June turns
back to me.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d met the Elector before?” I whisper. “You always talked
about him like he was a complete stranger.”

“He
is
a complete stranger,” June replies. She waits for a while, like she’s double-checking
her words. “I just didn’t see the point in telling you—I don’t
know
him, and I don’t have any particular feelings toward him.”

I think back to our kiss in the bathroom. Then I picture the new Elector’s portrait
and imagine an older June standing beside him as the future Princeps of the Senate.
On the arm of the wealthiest man in the Republic. And what am I, some dirty street
con with two Notes in his pocket, thinking I’ll actually be able to hang on to this
girl after spending a few weeks with her? Besides, have I already forgotten that June
once belonged to an elite family—that she was mingling with people like the young
Elector at fancy dinner parties and banquets back when I was still hunting for food
in Lake’s trash bins? And this is the
first
time I’ve pictured her with upper-class men? I suddenly feel so stupid for telling
her that I love her, as if I’d be able to make her love me in return like some common
girl from the streets.
She didn’t say it back, anyway.

Why do I even care? It shouldn’t hurt this much. Should it? Don’t I have more important
stuff to worry about?

The Medic walks over to me. June squeezes my hand; I’m reluctant to let go. She
is
from a different world, but she gave it all up for me. Sometimes I take this for
granted, and then I wonder how I have the nerve to doubt her, when she’s so willing
to put herself in danger for my sake. She could easily leave me behind. But she doesn’t.
I chose this,
she’d told me.

“Thanks,” I say to her. It’s all I can manage.

June studies me, then gives me a light kiss on the lips. “It’ll all be over before
you know it, and then you’ll be able to scale buildings and run walls as fast as you
ever did.” She lingers for a moment, then stands up and nods to the Medic and Tess.
Then she’s gone.

I close my eyes and take a shuddering breath as the Medic approaches. From this angle,
I can’t see Tess at all. Well, whatever this’ll feel like, it can’t be as bad as getting
shot in the leg. Right?

The Medic covers my mouth with a damp cloth. I drift away into a long, dark tunnel.

*   *   *

Sparks. Memories from some faraway place.

I’m sitting with John at our little living room table, both of us illuminated by the
unsteady light of three candles. I’m nine. He’s fourteen. The table is as wobbly as
it’s ever been—one of the legs is rotting away, and every other month or so, we try
to extend its life by nailing more slabs of cardboard to it. John has a thick book
open before him. His eyebrows are scrunched together in concentration. He reads another
line, stumbles on two of the words, then patiently moves on to the next.

“You look really tired,” I say. “You should probably go to bed. Mom’s going to be
mad if she sees you’re still up.”

“We’ll finish this page,” John murmurs, only half listening. “Unless
you
need to go to bed.”

That makes me sit up straighter. “I’m not tired,” I insist.

We both hunch over the pages again, and John reads the next line out loud. “‘In Denver,’”
he says slowly, “‘after the . . . completion . . . of the northern Wall, the Elector
Primo . . . officially . . . officially . . .’”

“‘Deemed,’” I say, helping him along.

“‘Deemed . . . it a crime . . .’” John pauses here for a few seconds, then shakes
his head and sighs.

“‘Against,’” I say.

John frowns at the page. “Are you sure? Can’t be the right word. Okay then. ‘Against.
Against the state to enter the . . .’” John stops, leans back in his chair, and rubs
at his eyes. “You’re right, Danny,” he whispers. “Maybe I should go to bed.”

“What’s the matter?”

“The letters keep smearing on the page.” John sighs and taps a finger against the
paper. “It’s making me dizzy.”

“Come on. We’ll stop after this line.” I point to the line where he had paused, then
find the word that was giving him trouble. “‘Capital,’” I say. “‘A crime against the
state to enter the capital without first obtaining official military clearance.’”

John smiles a little as I read the sentence to him without a hitch. “You’ll do just
fine on your Trials,” he says when I finish. “You and Eden both. If
I
squeaked by, I know
you’ll
pass with flying colors. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, kid.”

I shrug off his praise. “I’m not
that
excited about high school.”

“You should be. At least you’ll get a chance to go. And if you do well enough, the
Republic might even assign you to a college and put you in the military. That’s something
to be excited about, right?”

Suddenly there’s pounding on our front door. I jump. John pushes me behind him. “Who
is it?” he calls out. The knocking gets louder until I cover my ears to block out
the noise. Mom comes out into the living room, holding a sleepy Eden in her arms,
and asks us what’s going on. John takes a step forward as if to open the door—but
before he can, the door swings open and a patrol of armed street police barge in.
Standing in front is a girl with a long dark ponytail and a gold glint in her black
eyes. Her name is June.

“You’re under arrest,” she says, “for the assassination of our glorious Elector.”

She lifts her gun and shoots John. Then she shoots Mom. I’m screaming at the top of
my lungs, screaming so hard that my vocal cords snap. Everything goes black.

A jolt of pain runs through me. Now I’m ten. I’m back in the Los Angeles Central Hospital’s
lab, locked away with who knows how many others, all strapped to separate gurneys,
blinded by fluorescent lights. Doctors with face masks hover over me. I squint up
at them.
Why are they keeping me awake?
The lights are so bright—I feel . . . slow, my mind dragging through a sea of haze.

I see the scalpels in their hands. A mess of mumbled words passes between them. Then
I feel something cold and metallic against my knee, and the next thing I know, I arch
my back and try to shriek. No sound comes out. I want to tell them to stop cutting
my knee, but then something pierces the back of my head and pain explodes my thoughts
away. My vision tunnels into blinding white.

Then I’m opening my eyes and I’m lying in a dim basement that feels uncomfortably
warm. I’m alive by some crazy accident. The pain in my knee makes me want to cry,
but I know I have to stay silent. I can see dark shapes around me, most of them laid
out on the ground and unmoving, while adults in lab coats walk around, inspecting
the bundles on the floor. I wait quietly, lying there with my eyes closed into tiny
slits, until those walking leave the chamber. Then I push myself up onto my feet and
tear off a pant leg to tie around my bleeding knee. I stumble through the darkness
and feel along the walls until I find a door that leads outside, then drag myself
into a back alley. I walk out into the light, and this time June is there, composed
and unafraid, holding her cool hand out to help me.

“Come on,” she whispers, putting her arm around my waist. I hold her close. “We’re
in this together, right? You and me?” We walk to the road and leave the hospital lab
behind.

But the people on the street all have Eden’s white-blond curls, each with a scarlet
streak of blood cutting through the strands. Every door we pass has a large, spray-painted
red
X
with a line drawn through its center. That means everybody here has the plague. A
mutant plague. We wander down the streets for what seems like days, through air thick
as molasses. I’m searching for my mother’s house. Far in the distance, I can see the
glistening cities of the Colonies beckoning to me, the promise of a better world and
a better life. I’m going to take John and Mom and Eden there, and we’ll be free from
the clutches of the Republic at last.

Finally, we reach my mother’s door, but when I push it open, the living room is empty.
My mother isn’t there. John is gone.
The soldiers shot him,
I remember abruptly. I glance to my side, but June has vanished, and I’m alone in
the doorway. Only Eden’s left . . . he’s lying in bed. When I get close enough for
him to hear me coming, he opens his eyes and holds his hands out to me.

But his eyes aren’t blue. They’re black, because his irises are bleeding.

*   *   *

I come to slowly, very slowly, out of the darkness. The base of my neck pulses the
way it does when I’m recovering from one of my headaches. I know I’ve been dreaming,
but all I remember is a lingering feeling of dread, of something horrible lurking
right behind a locked door. A pillow is wedged under my head. A tube pokes out of
my arm and runs along the floor. Everything’s out of focus. I struggle to sharpen
my vision, but all I can see is the edge of a bed and a carpet on the floor and a
girl sitting there with her head resting on the bed. At least, I
think
it’s a girl. For an instant I think it might be Eden, that somehow the Patriots rescued
him and brought him here.

The figure stirs. Now I see that it’s Tess.

“Hey,” I murmur. The word slurs out of my mouth. “What’s up? Where’s June?”

Tess grabs my hand and stands up, stumbling over her reply in her rush. “You’re awake,”
she says. “You’re—how are you feeling?”

“Slow.” I try to touch her face. I’m still not entirely convinced that she’s real.

Tess checks behind her at the bedroom door to make sure no one else is there. She
holds up a finger to her lips. “Don’t worry,” she says quietly. “You won’t feel slow
for long. The Medic seemed pretty happy. Soon you’ll be better than new and we can
head for the warfront to kill the Elector.”

It’s jarring to hear the word
kill
come so smoothly out of Tess’s mouth. Then, an instant later, I realize that my leg
doesn’t hurt—not even the smallest bit. I try to prop myself up to see, and Tess pushes
the pillows up behind my back so I can sit. I glance down at my leg, almost afraid
to look.

Tess sits beside me and unwraps the white bandages that cover the area where the wound
was. Under the gauze are smooth plates of steel, a mechanical knee where my bad one
used to be, and metal sheets that cover half my upper thigh. I gape at it. The parts
where metal meets flesh on my thigh and calf feel molded tightly together, but only
small bits of redness and swelling line the edges. My vision swims.